


Did Someone Say Cockpit?

by rosie_berber



Series: Tuesday Topsy Turvy Tropes! [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Cute, Fear of Flying, Fluff, Flying, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, M/M, Meet-Cute, No Angst, Pilot Dean, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 19:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7726519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had recently been Castiel’s thirty-fifth birthday, and while he would have perfectly content with absolutely no pomp and zero circumstance, his attitude was deemed wholly unacceptable by Gabriel. This year’s torment came in the form of fifteen lessons with an aviation expert so Castiel could work towards getting his pilot’s license. It would have been an extraordinarily generous gesture, had it not been for the fact that Castiel was petrified of flying; as it stood, the lessons were an obscenely expensive gag gift. When Castiel lays his eyes on his instructor in all his bow-legged, leather jacket-clad, sweet glory, he thinks: maybe this won't be so bad after all.</p><p>Fluff, fluff and more fluff.</p><p>Comes from the idea that it would be fun to invert certain beloved Destiel tropes (this time it's flying) and see where it leads these characters (hint: it's still to fall madly in love with one another!) </p><p>Tumble along with <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">me!</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Did Someone Say Cockpit?

**Author's Note:**

> Turn back if you are expecting anything other than fluffy, fluffy drabble here.
> 
> Also, sorry not sorry for my TERRIBLE INNUENDOS FOR TITLES.

          Castiel clutches the crumpled confirmation within his hand as he shuffles down the tarmac. _I could still turn back_ , he thinks. But the arrogant smirk he can imagine painted across his older brother’s face, the silent _I knew you’d chicken out_ , is enough to keep his feet moving forward. It had recently been Castiel’s thirty-fifth birthday, and while he would have perfectly content with absolutely no pomp and zero circumstance, his attitude was deemed wholly unacceptable by Gabriel. This year’s torment came in the form of fifteen lessons with an aviation expert so Castiel could work towards getting his pilot’s license. It would have been an extraordinarily generous gesture, had it not been for the fact that Castiel was _petrified_ of flying; as it stood, the lessons were an obscenely expensive gag gift. His phobia was routinely mocked by Gabe, who insisted thirty-five was the year for Castiel to start whittling down his list of fears. His lack of social engagements offered him no excuse to decline the “present” (another area of improvement, Gabriel insisted), so begrudgingly, Castiel found himself agreeing to sacrifice his Saturdays for the next four months.

 

          When he squints his eyes, he can manage to make out a silhouette in the distance. With each step he takes, the form comes into more precise focus. A man. A tall man. A tall man with a clipboard in his hand, whose knees seem to refuse to touch. Legs clad in denim while worn brown leather covers his broad shoulders. The brown of the jacket shades darker than sandy hair. A man whose eyes were obscured by the appropriately donned aviator shades bridged on his nose. A man who is waving towards Castiel, eager to make his acquaintance. As Castiel returns the gesture, his hand moving at first too slow and then much too fast, his heart begins to race. Not just nerves about taking to the sky, but a wild rush of feeling as the pilot’s features come into clear view. And when he is close enough to notice the freckles sprinkled across the man’s cheeks, when the plumpness of the pilot’s lips move to articulate his name, when two hands make contact to say hello, Castiel is left with one thought louder than the rest shouting in his mind.

 

          Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          The pilot explains that their first flight will be just about getting Castiel comfortable in the cockpit - he doesn’t have to worry about taking on any responsibility beyond that. The words, reassuring, pour from Dean Winchester’s mouth - that was the pilot’s name. _It was a good, trustworthy name_ , Castiel tells himself, hoping to convince the perspiration pooling at his palms that this wasn’t a terrible idea. He is mortified to have to extend that sweaty hand to Dean, who guides him up the short ladder into the cramped cockpit of the tiny propeller plane. The back of Castiel’s calves graze Dean’s knees as he passes by to take the co-pilot seat, sending a surge of electricity through his body. _Really? Turned on by his kneecaps? I’m doomed._

 

          Maybe it’s the momentary touch - maybe it’s the reality sinking in as the metal clinks as he buckles his seatbelt, but something’s got Castiel straining to breathe like a normal human being. His jitters do not go without notice, the cartoonish look of panic across his face prompting Dean to, once again, offer nurturing words to the fully-grown man/nervous wreck seated at his side.

 

          “Cas - you gotta relax buddy,” the friendly moniker accompanied by a relaxed smile. “Flying - it’s all about feeling. Everything that’s around us - we control it. The steel and contraptions and meters - it’s all important and you’ll obviously learn those ropes in your ground course. But here? When we are up here - we get to have wings. Everything in this plane is connected to us - we do and feel what feels right - overthinking and tensing up will get us nowhere.”

 

          Castiel nods towards Dean, wanting to agree, wanting to understand, trying to will his nerves to settle so that he can. He takes one deep breath in as the wheels race down the runway, as Dean and his wings slowly lift the two of them into the air. He can still make out the models of the cars below him when his mind betrays him, pulling up statistics on how small aircrafts were far more dangerous than jumbo jets. It is as if his anxieties were being broadcast aloud, for Dean is quick to attenuate Castiel’s tendency to over-analyze.

 

          “Let’s play a game.”

  


⤪----------⤭

 

          The game, as it turns out, was to keep Castiel talking throughout the entire flight, occupying his mind with a question to contemplate.

 

          During the first lesson, Dean asked him what movie he always found himself watching on a sick day. Castiel is at first reserved about his choice, struggling to find a less embarrassing admission, but figures if Dean isn’t judging the sweat that has collected along his collar, he probably won’t make much of the fact that _The Witches of Eastwick_ is chicken soup for his soul. He soon finds himself laughing aloud as he recalls his favourite parts and defending the merits of witchcraft, so long as it is used against the devil. He’s halfway through his accolade-filled commentary regarding Jack Nicholson’s performance when the plane’s wheels make contact with the asphalt.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          Their second session takes place the next Saturday afternoon. Castiel learns how to apply back and forward pressure to the elevator control, the nose of the small aircraft rising and falling when he does. He then goes on to detail his five desert island albums to Dean.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          They take flight at sunrise the next week. Castiel practices with the aileron control, lowering the wings. Dean then asks him about the best class he’s ever taken. It stumps him for a while - most of his university courses were directly tied to his accounting degree, which, while practical, was not the sort of stuff he found himself animated by. He settles on his comparative religious studies course during the first year of his undergraduate degree, talking at length about how interesting he finds different faith traditions, even if he himself is a bit skeptical about the existence of God.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          “If you could immediately play any sport with professional level proficiency, which would you choose?” Dean asks him as they begin to rise through the night sky the following week. Castiel first relays the fact that, like all his brothers and sisters, he was on the receiving end of fencing lessons from the moment he could hold an épée outright. He explains the merits of the sport to Dean, the grace it takes to do it well. All before confessing that he harbours a secret, inexplicable, mortifying to his WASP relations love of wrestling. Castiel feels like he could bathe in the satisfied chuckle Dean expels at the admission.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          He is practicing with the rudder pedals, moving the plane’s nose to his left and his right, when Dean asks his most absurd question yet: which is creepier, outer space or the deepest abysses of the ocean? They try to terrify each other ad nauseum with trivia about gulper eels and goblin sharks and fangtooth fish before conceding that the vacancy of space gives them both nightmares.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          Castiel’s first unsupported ascent is followed by him talking about the worst parts of his job. The stale coffee. The tendency for the very wealthy to be the most adamant of finding each and every tax avoidance possible. Inane water cooler talk with Marv, his most detested coworker.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          He still hasn’t finished explaining to Dean why John and Sherlock are his OTP when he begins his descent. His passion for the topic is not dampened by the fact that Dean’s cheeks become uncharacteristically rosy when Castiel speaks of the heart eyes the two throw towards one another meaning more than a thousand kisses shared by straight couples.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          When Dean asks if he would travel forwards or backwards if he got one trip in a time machine, Castiel carefully considers his options. Dean, for his part, offers up the idea of going back to the Wild West, hanging out with Butch Cassidy and Billy the Kid and whatever other unruly outlaw he could find. He concedes he’s probably watched one too many Eastwood flicks in his day. The flush reemerges, much to Castiel’s pleasure. They are mid-flight when Castiel decides forwards - he’d rather not dwell in the past. He’s excited about the unknown potential waiting in the future.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          If he weren’t fastened into place, Dean would fall over from the side-splitting laughter that overtakes him when Castiel describes the worst meal he has ever eaten. He was twenty, trying to impress a date with his cooking prowess. Except, as he quickly found out, he possessed absolutely no culinary skill. Daphne politely restrained her disgust while eating Castiel’s “risotto,” otherwise known as mushy rice topped with melted American cheese singles. Which he simultaneously managed to serve burned and submerged in liquid.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          It is on their tenth session that Castiel is confronted with the fact that he has somehow conquered his fear of flying, finding a warm comfort in this place. Still, he does not disrupt the ritual they have formed as he now details the book he owns with the most notes in the margins. He rants and raves about how he has loved _Slaughterhouse Five_ since he first read it as an awkward adolescent. It is Castiel’s turn to feel the flush on his face when Dean lifts the sleeve of his jacket slightly to reveal a Billy Pilgrim tattoo that adorns his wrist, that headstone that declared that _everything is beautiful and nothing hurt._

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          Castiel takes over the question-taking on their next session, the first night flight where Dean does little more than observe. He asks the man with the kind jade eyes where he would go if he could emigrate anywhere in the world. The pilot is hesitant to divulge, explaining that he would never want to be too far apart from his brother, the only family he has left in this world. When Castiel notices a slight tremble to Dean’s always steady hand, he alters the question, allowing for Dean to take Sammy, as he learned the brother was named, along. He settles on Amsterdam, waggling his eyebrows towards Castiel in a way that almost has him lose control of the aircraft.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          Dean asks Castiel to tell him about his last family get together on their next trip. Maybe it’s the early hour or the lack of an adequate amount of caffeine flowing through his system, but Castiel tells embarrassing story after embarrassing story about the most recent Novak Family Christmas. Lucy got in a huge fight with dad, Michael chastised everyone for their life decisions, Gabriel was sauced on dessert wine before the first course was served.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          They manage to luck out that it begins to rain just before one of their sessions, providing Castiel with the opportunity to navigate through inclimate weather. Perhaps it’s a bit too on the nose, but the rain that splatters itself across the glass as they take to the sky fills him with a profound melancholy, knowing that this appointment, one he eagerly anticipated throughout each week, was soon to no longer find itself within his calendar. Every wonderful moment just a bit closer to the finish line. He says little when Dean asks which language he would choose to be fluent in overnight, making small remarks about the usefulness of Latin.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          His heart really hurts on their second to last lesson, but he doesn’t let it show. All good things must come to an end, he reminds himself, as he debates with Dean what the worst superpower is. They settle on telepathy, as there are certain thoughts one would rather not know are going through another’s mind.

 

⤪----------⤭

 

          Castiel isn’t ready to say goodbye on the last Saturday he is scheduled to spend with Dean Winchester. This was supposed to be torture he trudged through. The smiles and laughs and jokes they shared in this space weren’t supposed to pervade his dreams, weren’t designed to distract him at work. He tries to cherish each feeling and sensation as he begins to lift the plane into the air. The man at his side is silent, although his furrowed brow and the way in which he keeps licking his lips show that there is something plaguing his mind. Castiel does not push - he enjoys the shape of clouds that pass in front of him, the vibrations through steel of the propellers. He loses himself to the feel of flight, so much so that he is almost sure he has misheard Dean’s inquiry, embarrassed to have to ask him to repeat himself.

 

          The other man speaks again, in a volume barely above a whisper, as if there was someone stowed away, eavesdropping on their conversation.

 

          “What would a perfect first date be like?”

 

          Castiel stumbles through his answer, something about a walk in the park and relaxed drinks together. He talks of simple things - comfort food, unforced conversation. He dares not to mention the person he imagines doing those things alongside.

 

          They ride together silently for some time after he finishes. The landing is smooth, Castiel slowly killing the engine, feeling the aircraft’s resistance to stopping and empathizing with that desire. After the two have stepped out of what Castiel just months ago would have surely called a steel tube of death, he thanks the other man for his guidance, pulling him into an awkward embrace.

 

          The gratitude is met with a smirk, with Dean running one hand through his hair to the back of his neck, posing himself to once again speak.

 

          “You know, it’s too bad. If we had just one more session, I had a great question for you.”

 

          Castiel lingers over the lips that have just posed such a tantalizing temptation.

 

          “Perhaps … perhaps you can ask it anyway? A graduation gift?”

 

          The pilot pulls in a deep breath, building his resolve to speak.

 

          “Would you like to grab a drink sometime? Maybe take a walk in the park?”

 

          Castiel nods his head in joyous affirmation. His feet firmly planted on the ground, he feels on top of the world like never before.

 

          It was Dean’s best question yet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I share Dean's fear of flying, and writing this was super hard for me. As much as I love those boys, I don't think it would be enough to get me through.
> 
> Who am I kidding? I'd sell my soul and go to the hell of one constantly turbulent flight for them to become canon!
> 
> Also: What album do you think would be on Castiel's desert island discs?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Serendipitous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805575) by [chucks_prophet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet)




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